The Marks We Bear
by BellatrixBlack1997
Summary: When Lucius Malfoy had failed the Dark Lord for the second time, Draco expected to die in place of his father. Instead, he was bitten by Fenrir Greyback. Now, a half-breed he is determined to carry out the Dark Lord’s wishes and earn the Dark Mark despite his new blood status. Yet, a bookish Gryffindor girl might just get in his way. A Dramione fic.
1. Father’s Punishment

Disclaimer: Harry Potter's world as well as the characters within are a beautiful masterpiece and I am very thankful that J.K. Rowling has shown it to us. Yet, it unfortunately does not belong to me. I am merely a fan in dire need of an outlet.

A/N: It's been a long while since I've updated anything and I sincerely apologize for that. If any of you are readers of The Life of Remus Lupin, know that I am going to try my best to post more regularly for that from now on and the same goes for The Mistakes He Made. While I may end up having another draught between chapters rest assured that I will never abandon a story. Finally, just so you know, this will be a Dramione fanfic. You have been warned.

Chapter One: Father's Punishment

A pale glow, the thin light of each pinprick of a star upon the obsidian-coloured sky, threaded together, as though veins connecting them. This pulse of galactic life illuminated four figures, mere silhouettes to be otherwise swallowed within the folds of night's shadowy veil but for when they would wade through these shallow pools of reflected light on the ground.

These outlines of beings moved briskly along a clear, straight path, bordered by a vast collection of greenery and leading from an imposing manor, cold despite all its grace. The occasional peacock would meander into their trail yet would quickly remove themselves after a brilliant bolt sent from one of the travelers would strike them.

Focusing on these travelers from a closer vantage point reveals one in the lead with another a half step behind. The latter's lagging seems to have nothing to do with physical capabilities but rather out of respect for the former whom carries with them an air which demands recognition of a higher status. The remaining two shadows walk side by side and while they too give the pretense of an elite social circle, their trek away from the stone house behind them was made with some obvious trepidation.

Another peacock wandered across the path. The woman in lead of the group flicked her wand, sending out a flurry of sparks which stained the retinas and shocked the albino bird into a run with an indignant shriek of anguish. This outburst caused a faint smile to caress the woman's lips.

She was a sharp featured woman, her aristocracy woven into every part of her from the serene way her limbs bended with each step to how her dark eyes tilted about, eager to pass judgement. Her black hair was an insurmountable mass of curls knotted down her back and hanging over her hooded eyelids. Her skin was ghostly white and of a seemingly papery texture, stretched over the knuckles and veins of her hand, a parting gift from Azkaban. Moving up this hand to the thin fingers and long, elegant black nails, where enclosed in this lazy grasp rests the wand which had scathed the few unlucky peacocks to happen in her way.

Hovering at her lace-donned shoulder, a face of the same mold gazed at her in admiration. The man shared her coal-like eyes and dark locks, though his hair was quite a bit tamer. His features were hollowed within his drawn face. Much like his companion, he seemed to have once been very handsome before Azkaban. "Quickly, Bella," The man murmured to the woman. "He mustn't be kept waiting."

The woman identified as Bella turned her head. "Come along, Cissy," she called and the troop moved on.

The staggering two made no attempt to quicken their pace despite the encouragement from Bella. The two laggers were around the same height with matching pale blonde hair. The one on the left side was a woman whom had plenty of potential for beauty had her nose not been turned up in a permanent shape of disgust. She kept one firm hand on the boy beside her's shoulder as they walked.

For the final member of the group was still a boy, though nearly a man. His hair was fair and tangled with his long eyelashes. His body was lanky but lacking of the awkwardness of boyhood. He held his head high, unaware of where they were going though he assumed that the woman next to him, his mother, did. And while many would take him for one, he was no fool and was not ignorant to the tension in the air which suggested that the reason they were being summoned was not to be pleasant.

His mother was studying him carefully, eyes searching meticulously for some emotion to be displayed that she could focus on, no doubt to put aside her own anxiety. He wondered what she thought she would find. Fear? That would be the most common response to meeting the Dark Lord, though the Malfoys were not a family of cowards but rather of pride. Then perhaps shame? No matter what she was looking for, he was determined not to let her find it. He kept his face and even his body impassive, instead looking at the scenery he had gazed upon thousands of times before in the past sixteen years of his life.

This time though was different. He had rarely ever seen the manor's front lawn in the context of night and while a combination of the stars with the full moon provided for light nearly as good as the sun, the tinting was off. It wasn't flooded so much as cast on the Earth's face, getting caught on everything from the grooves in his Aunt Bellatrix's wand to the feathers in the white peacock wings. It trickled through the gaps in the hedges, filtered down between leafy branches, and glinted off the top of the high, slick gate.

As they passed through said gate, Bellatrix stopped and turned to face the group. She surveyed the two Malfoys with pitying eyes, unlike her usually cold exterior. She held out her elbow for Side-Along Apparation. "Grab hold, Cissy," she said. "Rodolphus will take the boy."

Cissy shied from her sister. "Please, Bella," she plead. "Tell him it isn't our fault. Lucius is serving his punishment and we are apart from his failures."

"Grab hold, Narcissa," Bellatrix said, with more venom in her tone. "We are only servants to carry out the Dark Lord's bidding. And, even so, it is not your place to question him."

Narcissa closed her eyes and began reaching for Bellatrix's arm, then stopped. She threw her arms about her son's frame, holding him close. "You are not your father, Draco," she whispered into his ear. "Whatever the Dark Lord says to you or does to you, it was meant for your father to bear." With a pointed look from Bellatrix, Narcissa reluctantly grasped her sister's forearm and they Disapparated with a crack.

Draco clung to his mother's parting words as he grabbed Rodolphus Lestrange's proffered elbow. He now knew from his mother's frantic appeals that they were being brought before the Dark Lord due to his father's errors in the Ministry during the spring. Draco was no fool. He knew what penalties awaited those who angered the Dark Lord. As Draco felt the jarring effects of Apparation take hold, he finally came to terms with the knawing fear in the back of his mind that had originally suggested the all too likely reason for him to be summoned. Draco was prepared to die.

The walls were donned with peeling and discoloured paper. The floors were made of scuffed and uneven planks with a threadbare carpet laying in the middle. A lumpy chair of an indistinguishable shade had been shoved haphazardly in the corners. An unlit fireplace with chipped and broken rocks and a dust-coated mantle was beside a grey door with no handle. Black curtains concealed all but the splintering wood frame of a window. Draco took in the room with a passing glance for his attention instantly focused on the form standing between the hearth and the handless door.

The face was reptilian with slit red eyes and a grey, veiny complexion. His bony, skeletal form was draped in a simple black robe and his thin fingers held a wand.

"My Lord," Bellatrix said, her fierce admiration evident in her voice. "Lucius Malfoy's wife and son, as requested."

The Dark Lord's gaze studied Narcissa and then Draco. "Leave us," he commanded. With a dip of her head and a brush of her left forearm, as though to assure herself that the mark was still there, she eased the door open with her wand and glided out with her husband shuffling behind.

Narcissa inched closer to Draco, the cuff of her robe grazing his wrist. He was far too old to have his arms clasped about his mother's waist, but her mere presence at his side was a world of comfort. The Dark Lord drew nearer.

"Narcissa Malfoy," he frowned, his face twisting cruelly. "Your husband has disappointed me. Twice he has failed me. My first thought went to disposing him. Yet, he has managed to temporarily evade me in Azkaban." Two scraggly fingers ran through Narcissa's blonde hair. "I believe he will soon... _regret _his capture."

"Don't touch her!" Draco snapped but then promptly clamped his lips together when the red eyes met his.

"Aaahh," he said. "Young Draco. Relax, my boy. Your mother will not be harmed tonight." He pressed the tip of his wand into Draco's chin, raising his head as though he were a specimen of some rare beast to study. "What potential," he marveled. "Such a waste."

"No," Narcissa whispered in horror. Then her voice grew louder and louder in a devastating crescendo. "No, no, no! Not Draco, not Draco, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please not Draco! Please!" A Death Eater entered and grabbed Narcissa's wrists, pushing her out of the room. "No! Nooo! Draco! DRACO!" She cried, but was swiftly whisked away, leaving Draco alone with _him_.

He faced him calmly, hoping no emotion could be read in his eyes. He would meet death plainly, he told himself firmly. No screams. No groveling at his killer's feet. He would shoulder the punishment meant for his father and he would do it without further tainting the Malfoy name.

Surprisingly, the Dark Lord did not draw his wand on him but instead began rolling up the sleeve of Draco's robe, past the left forearm. A strange realization dawned on him and his tongue formed the words before he could sensor himself. "The Mark?" He asked skeptically.

"When you were born," the Dark Lord began. "Lucius told me that he would have failed as a father if you would not grow to bear the same mark as him. The Dark Mark. My Mark. And now, sixteen years later, I can say, he has failed." He released Draco's arm harshly and turned to the door.

"I don't understand..." Draco muttered. Then, raising his voice, he asked, "That's it then? I can't hold the Dark Mark?"

"There's a bit more to it than that," the Dark Lord sneered. He opened the door and left the room. No sooner had he gone than another figure entered the space, swinging the door shut behind him.

The face was marred with angry red scars, the long grey hair was matted with grime, the mouth was twisted into an animalistic grin with pointed, yellow teeth. His robes were ragged and torn, the front splattered with blood. His eyes were a bright blue, shining with madness.

"Lucius's boy!" He exclaimed. "Never thought I'd see the day that a pure blood would be brought to me soo..._willingly_."

"Greyback..." Draco spoke the name numbly, not yet understanding.

Greyback sauntered off to the window where he threw the curtains open. Light spilled onto the floor, dripping through the cracks and laying upon Draco's feet. Suddenly, he realized what was about to happen here. Eyes jumping anxiously to the window, the moon was already climbing the sky in confirmation.

"No," he whispered.

"Yes," Greyback grinned. His breathing had started to hitch as his bones began to shift, yet still he attempted speech. "There is a chance that you may die. I confess that would be a shame. You look like a strong one though-" he cut himself off with a shout.

Draco took the moment of relief to lunge at the door. His fingers gripped the hole where the handle was meant to be. He yanked at it with all his strength but it would not move. It must have been reinforced with magic. A low growl behind him caused him to turn. Earlier promises to meet death in silence were forgotten when faced with the towering beast. He screamed as tears formed in his eyes. The wolf pounced on him, teeth clamping on his bare forearm. Blood ran down his palm, pooling on the floor. Claws tore at his chest, shredding his robes.

He could hear someone waiting on the other side of the door, their feet scuffing the ground. He tried to call out to them, but his voice was too hoarse. His body was weak, too much blood drenching his skin and not enough flowing to his heart. The world grew faded and fuzzy. The pain was ebbing as the chill of the room pulsed to a strange heat.

Draco had prepared himself to die. He had tried to arm himself against fear. Yet, as the werewolf continued its gruesome attack, he found that he could no longer ignore his terror. It should be known that he was not afraid to die. In fact, he was afraid that he wouldn't.


	2. Marks

A/N: Thank you so much, YourHuffleNamedLunaGrey and afedrigo, for reviewing last chapter! I always appreciate receiving feedback from you guys!

Chapter Two: Marks

Salt. The smell was so firmly pierced into the air that it lodged itself into Draco's throat, pricking upon his tongue. It was nearly his undoing and undoubtedly what must have woken him from the realm on the brink of death.

He had been so near it. So close. He had felt himself slipping away, exiting this world which had nothing left for him but pain. He could have avoided the worst of it, could have ended his short life with pure blood in his veins and pride to his name. Yet, his senses were far too overpowering now to let him so much as sleep, never mind die.

If he could make sense of anything besides the salt, he would find his ears ringing from nonsensical sounds in the distance, a throbbing light beyond his closed eyelids, perspiration trickling from his limp hair, over the groove of his lips, finally to crawl down his neck and settle in the crook of his throat. His arm and chest burned despite the cold substance pressed between it and the chafing gauze. He could hear laboured breathing at his right side and felt soft fingers curled about his wrist, applying a slight pressure no doubt meant to be comforting.

As much as Draco scorned what awaited him in the waking world, it was the reassuring touch from his mother which coaxed him into breaking the surface of consciousness.

His eyes opened and closed several times in rapid succession before the lids found their bearings and no longer fell over his vision. His mother must have heard the change in his breaths for her face slowly came into view, bending over him. Concern shone blatantly in her expression and undeniable trails of tears stained her cheeks, leading from her bloodshot eyes. That must have been the cause for the smell of salt.

Her soft hand removed itself from his arm, to rest on his forehead, as though checking for a fever. The ends of her long blonde hair tickled his nose. "Draco?" She asked in scarcely more than a whisper.

His fingers twitched and then his knees locked as his shoulders stiffened. It was such a practiced, routine motion to bend his ankles, press his elbows into the mattress, and lift his neck in order to rise from the vulnerable position one's body is forced into during slumber, that it came as a shock when sharp pain stabbed into his chest and shot up his arm, sending a fiery itch through his very bones and clouding his vision.

"It's best not to move, darling," his mother cautioned, a tremor in her voice as she seemed to hold back more tears. "We've applied dittany to the w-worst of it," she stuttered. "But anything that the s-s-saliva t-touched will s-scar." Unable to compose herself any longer, she turned away from him, shoulders heaving with unabashed sobs. The sound of her weeping filled the room, reverberating through Draco's newly heightened hearing.

He supposed a good son would attempt to console her. In all fact, any well-meaning man would put a lady of her status above himself and do all in his power to staunch the steady flow of tears. Yet, Draco neither saw himself as particularly good or well-meaning. As his mother continued to express her emotions so unbecomingly into the sleeves of her robes, Draco began his own ritual of mourning, though his was a silent affair, at least to the eyes and ears. Within his head and heart, however, a thunderous gong had resounded, the ending note to his comfortable life and promising future.

His heart. Each lethargic thump in his chest was another pump of an animal's blood coursing through his body. What was he without pure blood? How could he maintain his place as an heir to the Malfoy estate when he was now merely a part-human? He was worse than Potter, worse even than the Mudblood Granger. How had this happened? He had been at the top, destined to thrive in the new world the Dark Lord was planning to create. But, now, there was nothing. He would be an outcast, living on the dregs of proper wizarding society. Draco Malfoy had never felt so alone.

**/**

As the days passed idly by in Malfoy Manor, Draco recovered to the best he was able and he was soon able to move about the house with little difficulty. The wounds on his chest and forearm had closed but the scars refused to fade and while Draco knew better than to expect them to, he kept catching himself staring at the gruesome teethmarks and jagged scratches as though willing them to disappear.

Despite his new curse, his mother stayed faithfully by his side. She had nursed him whilst he was bedridden and even now she supported him and looked at him with no revulsion or loathing in her expressions. Perhaps there was some pity and sorrow. Draco could hardly blame her for that. He was her only son, the only heir for the Malfoy fortune. Of course she would be devastated to lose that. Those moments when she was undeniably pitying him, however, were moments when he could not meet her eyes and would have to excuse himself from the room.

Draco Malfoy didn't want anyone's pity. Nobody's but his own.

Such was how he spent the next couple of weeks, wallowing in self-pity, moving as if in a daze from room to room. There seemed nothing more to look forward to, nothing more to work for. As minutes ticked by into hours which morphed to days, the full moon drew ever nearer. Watching the moon grow each night became something of a pastime to him, counting down the nights until he could no longer pretend to be human.

It was the day before he and his mother planned to embark to Diagon Alley in order to replenish on school supplies for the coming year. He had been moping in his room, as was his wont, when there came a tap at the door. "Yes, Mother?" He asked sullenly.

Narcissa Malfoy peered behind the heavy mahogany door, her usual look of pity and sorrow playing on her face. Still, this time there was something more. Fear? Draco flinched as though he had been burned. Up until now, fear had never been amidst the unpleasant array of emotions his mother could not help when looking at him. Had she finally decided that sharing her home with a creature such as he was too much of a burden? His moment of panic was short-lived, due to his mother's next words.

"You have a visitor, Draco, dear," she said. "He's waiting in the parlour."

Draco descended to the parlour, having an assumption as to who this visitor might be and none too eager to receive him so soon. Greyback's words continued to come back to him, each time sounding more and more like a threat. "_I confess that would be a shame. You seem like a strong one,_" Draco shivered unconsciously. It seemed all too likely now that the mad werewolf was coming to collect him and make him apart of his growing pack.

Steeling his courage, Draco exhaled shakily and yanked open one of the double doors. It was not Greyback awaiting him in the dimly lit sitting room. "Hello, Draco," said the Dark Lord.

"My Lord," Draco dipped his head, halting in his tracks.

"I see you're walking. That is very reassuring," The Dark Lord smiled, a grim sight.

Draco wondered why he had come. His punishment towards the failure Lucius Malfoy had been fulfilled and it did not seem likely of him to come to gloat. Seemingly aware of his thought process, the Dark Lord continued, "I have not come merely to see you at your lowest, though I eagerly await Lucius's chance to witness your falling from grace. No, I am here because I realize that you have some use to me."

"What more could you want from me?" Draco asked bitterly. "Hasn't my suffering been enough to quench your sadism?"

"You will pay for insolence one day," the Dark Lord warned. "No. I would like to show you something, Draco. You can enter now, Bellatrix."

The dark-haired, pale skinned woman unearthed herself from the shadows, fingering her wand. She

looked down her nose at him in a gesture eerily reminiscent of her sister. "He did live, then," she said, sounding none too thrilled.

"Your arm, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord held out his palm. Smiling supercilously, she pinched the cuff of her lacy robe between two filed fingernails, pulling it slowly up her arm. As the cloth ruffled farther into the crook of her elbow, an inky black snake was revealed upon her otherwise unblemished skin. She folded the last bit of fabric over, uncovering the skull with its mouth open wide to accomodate the snake's tail. The Dark Lord rubbed his thumb over the skull in an almost fond gesture before reaching his other hand and pressing the end of his wand upon it. The Dark Mark seemed to grow darker still as the snake writhed, curling and uncurling about the hollow face.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" He murmured. "The power of the Dark Arts. Nothing but a _picture_, a bit of a mark on one's person, and others fear it. People cower from it. And they bow in its presence." Throughout this speech, Bellatrix's gaze never once left the Dark Lord's face, a kind of admiration being found there that she saved only for her leader.

"Draco, I am building a new world," the Dark Lord continued. "One where Muggles and Mudbloods live beneath our thumbs, if they live at all. One where half-breeds, like _you_, cease to be a bother. One where pure bloods reign, where the Dark Arts run wild. Draco, it will be such a beautiful world. A world where all is in its place."

"Why are you telling me this?" Draco asked.

"Because I am giving you a chance to avoid it," he answered. "Bellatrix will live quite the privileged life in my new world. Not only because she is pure, but also due to this." He gestured to her Mark, still in his grasp. "All of my followers, whom have stayed faithful to me, all who fight beside me, all who bear _this_ mark shall find themselves in rule. Currently, Draco, you have a very different mark on your arm. I cannot take that branding away. But, I can give you a new one. And, in my new world, nothing beneath the Dark Mark will matter. Not even a werewolf's blood."

He released Bellatrix. She did not unfurl her sleeve and instead grazed her lips against it, as though she could still feel his touch.

Draco stood for a moment in silence. For weeks he had tried to come to terms with what being a half-breed might mean, what kind of life he would lead after his father returned. He had no trouble imagining. He would be a beggar, starved and mad, or else wasting away underground with Greyback's pack. Anything seemed better than that. And wouldn't it make up for everything, smother father's disappointment, which was sure to come, at least a little, if only he became a Death Eater?

"What would I have to do?" He asked.

The Dark Lord smiled. "I need you to kill Albus Dumbledore."

None in the parlour could have known that just outside the door, a certain blonde witch had been listening intently. Narcissa Malfoy acted not as the Dark Lord's 'faithful servant,' in her sister's words, but as a mother who's son had been jerked from her grasp far too many times and changed more into his father because of it. Narcissa needed help. So, she embarked find Severus Snape.


	3. Notions From Youth

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has continued to read and follow this story and for the review from afedrigo and Dragon Girl 203 on the previous chapters. Your support has made me so happy and continues to inspire me to write. While reading this next chapter, I would like to remind you that this story will deviate from canon. Yes, I know that Draco's interactions with the trio in Diagon Alley are different in the Half-Blood Prince than they will be below. I am not changing things because I am lacking knowledge in the original books but because this storyline has to change if we want the inevitable paring of Draco and Hermione. Also, the Borgin and Burkes' scene is exact dialogue from "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" chapter six, "Draco's Detour." All rights to JK Rowling, of course. Now, onto the story!

Chapter Three: Notions From Youth

The streets of Diagon Alley had lost their light. Once colourful and inviting, the shops lining the cobblestone lane were mere shadows of their former glory, cowering in the peripheral lest a gaze should be turned on them. Even the sky seemed darker, the grey clouds curling sinisterly above the small handful of people rushing from shop to shop, stealing furtive looks at other patrons about them. Old, veiny wizards had perched themselves on the sidelines, grinning toothless smiles as they coaxed passersby to purchase bits of junk. Such was what came of Voldemort's presence in the world.

Hermione observed this with great sorrow seeping inside of her. Remembering the summer preceding her first year, she saw magic as a beautiful, if occasionally nonsensical, form of expression, a wondrous thing to base a society off of. Coming to Diagon Alley as a child had been exciting and glorious. Her being a witch felt nothing short of miraculous. Now, though, she was older. She understood that magic had a dark side. A cruel side. One that was shaping the wizarding world in new ways, none which would be kind to someone like her.

Ron and Harry walked briskly beside her as the three did their shopping, with Hagrid following closely behind. While there were little actual anomalies occurring in their collecting of school supplies, with the exception of one man approaching Ginny in an attempt to sell "protection" devices, their group and any others on the street pressed together shoulder to shoulder, fairly running to navigate between the foreboding shops.

They had nearly stepped through the threshold of Madam Malkin's, when another body filled the space.

His stature lacked much of the imperious disposition that he had carried in the past five years. His blonde hair, usually so tamed, now fell in scraggly clumps over his weary grey eyes. His shoulders were hunched over his curled spine. At first, he did not notice their approach, for his gaze was fixed upon his feet as though willing them to move. At last, he looked up, revealing a face so pale it was hard to imagine a heart still beating within him. It took him a near minute before he recognized the young wizards standing before him and, once he did, his lip began to curl back in a sneer before falling, impassive again, as though the effort were no longer worth it.

This shadow of pride, sliver of prestige, shell of a man could not possibly be Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy," Harry said in surprise, readying to combat whatever spiteful comment Malfoy would dole out. Yet, nothing came.

"Are you going to move, Malfoy?" Hermione finally said, yet her words lacked much emotion behind them as she was still slightly confused. Confusion was not something she was used to and it was a bit unsettling.

Malfoy nodded, eyes moving off past her shoulder. She turned, but there was nothing there. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Just as he was stepping around them, another figure exited the shop. Her eyebrows knit together disdainfully and her nose wrinkled. She carried a neatly tied package in one arm as she closed the door. "Mudbloods," Narcissa Malfoy muttered. She seemed about to say more, then stopped, eyes flickering to her son for a brief moment. "Shall we get your books then, Draco darling?" She asked. With one last glare from Mrs. Malfoy, the pair strode off to Flourish and Blotts.

"Bloody git," Ron muttered. "Wonder what he'd say if his mummy weren't hanging over him?"

"Did he seem strange to either of you?" Hermione asked.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked as he opened the door to the shop.

"He didn't look like himself. Almost like he was ill..."

"Serves him right. His people did all this. I hope the bastard's sick for a long time," Ron said darkly.

Harry seemed about to respond when Madam Malkin approached them, eager to to get their measurements and make three more sales. Or, Hermione thought as she caught the shopkeeper cast an anxious glance outside, in a hurry to get three possible threats out.

/

"You're right, Hermione," Harry said as she wandered closer to him and Ron. She drew her eyes away from the overwhelming, albeit impressive, displays of magical products the Weasley twins had cobbled together, looking curiously at her friend.

"Right? About what?"

"He _is_ up to something," Harry said then, seeing her all the more baffled expression, jerked his head to the window. "Look."

Upon peering out the window, Hermione spotted Malfoy, glancing about conspicuously before backing into the shadows of Knockturn Alley. "I never said he was up to something..." Hermione said, trailing off.

"Well, he must be. He has to be. We should follow him," Harry turned away quickly, nearly walking into Ron. He stepped around him and his friends followed.

"Wait!" Ron said, lowering his voice as they passed a group of students huddled about some Pygmy Puffs. "Don't forget the cloak!" Harry nodded and the three stepped outside the shop.

/

Draco entered the ill-lit shop, hunched over and moving with a significant lack of his usual grace. His eyes darted cautiously about the room, studying the larger artefacts, leering from the shadows, in the event they were perhaps unwanted patrons. Fortunately, the rise of the Dark Lord had not yet consoled the majority of wizards to venture into the most controversial of shops and Draco was the only soul within Borgin and Burkes', if one discounted Borgin himself.

The aforementioned shopkeeper's eyes laid upon the young werewolf as he entered and he gave a stiff bow, a slippery smile sliding across his face. "Ah, young Master Malfoy," He simpered. "How awful it was to hear of your father's sentencing. I trust his imprisonment won't be too long?"

"I am not here to discuss my family's personal affairs," Draco said coldly, however his spine tingled as though a Dementor had grasped it at the mention of his father. What would he say when he got out? What would befall his half-breed son?

"Alright then, young Master," Borgin sneered. "Are we buying or selling today?"

"Neither," Draco said. His eyes danced back to one of the larger artefacts in his peripheral, which appeared to be as tall as a fully grown wizard at least. "That wardrobe. It has a pair that needs fixing. Would you know anything about that?"

"Ah," Borgin smiled more, a disquieting rictus. "The Vanishing Cabinet. Quite a rare find. You have excellant taste, Mr. Malfoy."

"Yes, yes," Draco waved his hand impatiently. Perhaps a bit nervously. "The pair though. You mean to tell me you know how to fix it?"

"Possibly. I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?" He seemed hesitant, unsure if he should be putting so much effort forth to assist an underage wizard, wary of the threat of the true Master Malfoy, locked away so fleetingly while the Dark Lord continued to rise.

Draco saw all of this, he was quite observant when he wanted to be, and he knew that if it came to it, he may have to convince Borgin through less than ideal means. "I can't," Draco sighed. "It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it."

"Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything." Borgin was nervous in a distant way, nervous that perhaps this seemingly foolish task was somehow important to the Dark Lord and maybe he would pay for his incompetence some day. Maybe when Lucius was out of Azkaban. Draco knew, despite how much he loathed it, he had to show Borgin that he was facing a very real threat, far more significant than a mere underage wizard. His future was at stake.

Striding forward, Draco hid behind a mask of cruelness, a face of stone. "No?" he sneered, in mock arrogance. "Perhaps this will make you more confident." Draco began rolling up his left sleeve and, as he did, he could tell by Borgin's fearful admiration that he was expecting the Mark. So, when his face twisted into revulsion and then shocked into proper, horrific terror as he thought through those bite marks and their significance, Draco broke a little inside. He had always admired the fearful respect his father and his associates had garnered from people. But, this...Borgin did not respect him. He was not envious of him. He saw him as a monster. And he feared the same fate could await him if he was not compliant.

Profusely shamed and horrified at his own recklessness, Draco quickly covered up the still fresh scars. "Tell anyone and there will be retribution," he warned defensively. Then, after a bit of thought, he added, "You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention."

He and Borgin continued the deal and, though he had succeeded in earning the shopkeeper's attention, he had lost his respect. He had lost the envious gleam in Borgin's eye. He had gone from being the imposing estate owner to the savage watchdog. Something to run from, not to tremble in a shadow. When the matter was complete, Draco exited the shop, glancing up and down the street and hoping fervently that his mother had not worried too much.

He thought of his father, as he returned to Diagon Alley. How he had always wanted to be like him one day, how he would have been like him, was expected to be like him. But, that was when he was young and was ignorant to the fleetingness of power. Rich men could go to Azkaban. Strong women could break into pieces. Pure blood could grow dirty. Now, he had one chance. Kill Albus Dumbledore and his fate would be secure.

Somehow, Draco never thought once when he was younger why the Malfoy name struck such respect, such envy and admiration. Such fear. He never realized how much blood must have been spilled behind closed doors. But now, he was there.

/

Harry continued to go on about Malfoy as the three made their way back to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but Hermione wasn't listening. There was something off about the whole ordeal, yes, but she didn't think Malfoy was truly behind anything. He was up to something, of course. But, it felt more like he had been playing a part. His words had been hollow, rehearsed, not his. Hermione thought maybe this new world Voldemort was twisting might be more than Malfoy had expected too.


	4. Trapped

Chapter 4: Trapped

As the afternoon waned and the sun's light glow darkened and retreated from the windows of Malfoy Manor, Narcissa Malfoy watched as her son receded with it. His grey eyes had grown darker, his body frailer, blood draining from his face and leaving him pale and clammy. Sweat dampened his fair hair and plastered it upon his forehead, which throbbed beneath the heel of her hand with his accelerated heart rate as the day beat on.

Narcissa sat by Draco's side throughout the treacherous hours as his health declined ever more. He remained solemn and withdrawn, curled in upon himself in the middle of his bed. She watched his back, heart wrenching with each tremor of pain to send a quiver up his spine and a jerk in his shoulders. At first, she stroked his head and murmured words of comfort and reassurance. But, after a while, he shrugged her away and there were no words left to delay the inevitable.

She could not bring herself to leave the room, though. What if he needed her? What if he cried for her and she wasn't there? Narcissa recalled a time when Draco was small, and he had called for her, and she hadn't been there. She had lost a part of her son that day. And when he had shouted for someone, anyone just a month ago, to help him and she couldn't reach him...

Well, in short, Narcissa had lost too many pieces of her son for her to be at ease leaving him for but a moment. And she would soon have to leave him all night.

There was a tap on the door and then it swung open a moment later, a wizard clad in traditional black robes filled the space. His dark hair was long and limp with grease. His hook nose cast a shadow over his drawn face. He carried a goblet of a putrid smelling potion, still steaming as though just ladled from a simmering cauldron.

Severus Snape entered the room swiftly and efficiently, striding over to Draco's bedside and placing the goblet on the table beside him. "Wolfsbane Potion," he said. "I trust I need not emphasize how imperative it is that not a drop be left in this vessel before moonrise?" He cast an empty gaze over the unresponsive boy, and then swept from the room. "Narcissa?" He beckoned from the doorway.

She shook her violently, casting an anxious glance to her ill son and reaching for him with a shaking hand.

"Let us leave him, Narcissa," Severus said firmly. Dipping his head in the first sign of sympathy, he said quieter, "Allow him a respite from the facade he plays for us."

Narcissa studied her son, realizing now what had taken Severus mere moments to discern. He was not being cold because that's how he felt. He was hiding behind the easiest emotion to muster, indifference. Of course he would want to cry, to sob and scream at the unfairness. And of course her son was too proud to do any of that with his mother as witness. She nodded and hesitantly exited the room.

She silently berated herself as she and Severus withdrew down the corridor from Draco's room. She should have known he would be concealing his true feelings, playing a role for her benefit. After all, she had played a similar game with her parents after Andromeda had run. Was still playing that game with Bella, as a matter of fact.

"Thank you, Severus," she murmured, lost in thought. Her voice was hoarse and sounded to her like it was drifting up from a deep well. She looked into the face of the man who had just made Draco's life infinitely more easier, had mere weeks ago sacrificed a great deal for him. Possibly he had laid aside his own life. "Thank you for everything."

He nodded to her, discomfort writ across his face at her shameless gratitude. "I should be going," he said. "It won't do to leave Wormtail for long. The filthy spy."

"Of course," Narcissa nodded. "But, Severus..." She paused as his eyebrow quirked curiously. "He'll be alright, won't he?" She did not have to indicate that she meant Draco.

"We'll keep in touch, Narcissa," Severus said in place of answer, leaving the poor woman trapped in her bitter regret as the moon's ascent drew ever nearer.

/

Draco sat pressed into the corner of the dungeons in Malfoy Manor, his bare back curled against the stone and cold toes tapping on the weathered floor. He had left his robes at the top of the stairs with his mother and he now awaited his first transformation cold, humiliated, and alone.

The Wolfsbane Potion he had consumed earlier had scathed his nostrils, burned down his throat, and now lay bitter in his stomach. He only hoped that the vile concoction did what it was meant to do and doused the rageful mind of the truly transformed werewolf. Otherwise, he would be due more scars than the one that had already so cruelly shaped his future. He tucked his left forearm closer to his chest, refusing to face the gruesome mark.

He wondered what time it was. He had been down here an awfully long time. He wished the moon would just hurry up and rise instead of making him wait like this. Draco hid behind impatience and frustration because, the truth was that he was afraid. He was afraid of the transformation. He was afraid of the potion not working. He was afraid of hurting himself, of hurting his mother. He was afraid she might leave him, might finally realize that he was too much of a burden, an embarrassment, a threat. He was afraid of what his father would do when he finally came home. He was afraid for the rest of his life, of what awful future awaited him if he could not fulfill the Dark Lord's will.

That would be hard, though. In spite of his blatant hatred for the reigning Headmaster of Hogwarts, Draco did not want to be a murderer. Or an assasin, or whatever technical phrase was used for what he was planning. The point was that he did not care for Dumbledore. But, he did not necessarily want the old fool's blood on his hands.

Suddenly, a tremor shot up his spine. He started shaking and then he was sobbing as he bit back the terror, determined not to cry out and admit his weakness. And then his bones shattered and new teeth pierced through his gums and his jaw bones started snapping and shifting to make room and his knees reversed direction and his skin was awash with fiery itchiness as fur erupted from it and Draco could not keep back the screams anymore. They ripped from his chest, gushing up his throat with a mouthful of blood and Draco cried more because he didn't want to scream and he didn't want to spill blood and he didn't want to be a monster. But, he realized that night that it didn't matter what he wanted.

/

Draco did not recall when the transformation ended for the pain at last grew too monumentous for him to cling to consciousness, and by the time he came to, he was no longer Draco Malfoy, the young wizard. He was a true werewolf.

He tried to stand on his new legs, but they shook terribly and then gave out beneath him. He was suddenly wracked with exhaustion. The potion was working; he was not being drawn into a frenzy of any kind. There was no hunger. However, he wasn't quite himself either. Self identity and memories were hazy. It was nearly impossible to hold a thought. It was as though he had downed an entire goblet of Sleeping Draught and was now drifting between bafflement of his surroundings and confusion as to why he should care. But, he was not out of control. He was not feral. There would be no scarring tonight, at least not the physical kind.

Yet, as that relief set in, there was a sadness too, one that the wolf could not understand, one that Draco could not really begin to fathom, especially in his addled state. But, he knew, however detatchedly, that he was not himself. Even when the moon set and waned, he doubted that he ever would be again.

/

Narcissa had set the warding spells upon the door half heartedly before moonrise, not nearly to her usual competance. It was not that she put so much faith in the Wolfsbane Potion, though she never doubted Severus's abilities. It was that she was not at all comfortable locking her baby up like that, and she was not about to just leave him down there. Even if it meant putting her own safety at risk.

She had not even bothered with the Silencing Charm. She could face his screams. She could face his pain. However, when it started... One cannot begin to imagine the horror, the absolute agony to hear her child suffer like that. His shrieks of anguish cut her raw and she felt herself breaking, inside and out. It loosely reminded her of when he was young, and he had hinted at a fondness for a Muggle book he had seen. His father had taken him aside. He had called for her. She was too late to stop the hand from striking him. Too late to save him from the world of prejudices she and Lucius had been raised in.

His cries also reminded her strongly of that night a month ago, when that awful man, that monster, had trapped him in that room and destroyed his life. And she had been powerless to stop him.

Narcissa could not take it any longer. She cast aside the flimsy warding spells and darted down the steps, anxious to comfort him, to be there for him. Strong hands grasped her by the shoulders and spun her around before she could turn the corner. She cried out in shock and frustration, but her captor held her fast where she stood. "Trust me," Severus assured her softly. "You don't want to see this."

He led her back up the narrow steps and shut the door. At her protest, he did not lock it. He did not maintain the physical contact. Never mind the chasms between their class and blood statuses, it seemed to make him severely uncomfortable. However, he did stay with her through the night, perhaps to make sure she didn't do anything reckless again. Narcissa wished she could say it was comforting. That his presence was what she needed to make it through the nightmarish ordeal. But, with her son in such pain below them, all she could feel was trapped.


	5. Secrets and Lies

A/N: Thank you, Juliet Knighly and afedrigo for your reviews on the previous chapters. And thank you to the guests who have continued to show their support. You are all one of the most crucial reasons why I keep wanting to write.

Chapter 5: Secrets and Lies

Draco smirked to himself as he vacated the Hogwarts Express and embarked to the horseless carriages. That will teach Potter not to listen in at keyholes. Sure, the event that the so-called Chosen One would be thwarted from his efforts to escape the train were slim. Someone was bound to come across him eventually and, even if they didn't, the spell would wear off long before the Hogwarts Express reached London. Draco knew he had merely cost Potter convenience and a bit of pride. But, the slight felt well worth it.

Entering one of the final carriages, Draco nearly collapsed onto the bench, pressing his shoulders into the narrow corner and shooting a look of warning at the jabbering third years who fell silent upon seeing the imposing sixth year. Draco was quite sure his name and age was all that remained of his intimidation with other pupils, as he doubted he looked like much of a threat. He recalled the bruises under his eyes as he left for London that morning, how his clothes draped over his much thinner frame, the way his hands still shook, however imperceptibly, permanent tremours of a trauma never to be forgotten.

To be repeated, again and again. For the rest of his life.

His mother had pleaded with him all the way until he boarded the train to stay at home longer for recovery. He brushed her off, unwilling to allow her the assurance she craved for he knew it was of empty meaning and it would only serve to weaken his own resolve. Awaiting recovery was a futile effort. He would never recover. He would never be better. Never, never. And he had to go to Hogwarts. To reclaim the status he was born with, however figuratively, he had to kill Dumbledore. And he couldn't very well do it from his bedroom.

The jolting trot of the cart came to a halt abruptly, the wall Draco had been leaning on smartly rapping his back and pitching him forward. He caught himself with the points of his polished shoes, but it was nevertheless undignifying. He cast a glance at his juniors to see if what they made of him, but found that they had already taken their leave, and the young werewolf was alone in the cart.

He hurriedly exited and rushed to join the throng of gathering students at the castle gates. The crowd of youths seemed to be moving slower than usual into the Entrance Hall and, when at last Draco was near enough, he realized why.

Mr. Filch, the insufferable Squib caretaker of Hogwarts stood beside the single opened gate, probing each student that passed with his gaze for any telltale suspicious behaviour. For several students, he went so far as to bid them to remove their outer robes for further inspection. Every face was scrutinized and each student that passed him was given a terse nod of acknowledgement and a mark upon a list. No doubt their luggage, which would be brought up by the house elves during the feast, would be given similar attention. It was a good thing that Draco had not needed to bring any of Borgin's artefacts to school.

It wasn't until after he passed by the caretaker's hawk-like stare and onto the school grounds did he find his friends. Crabbe and Goyle gave him an amicable nod, but then continued their brisk trot to the Great Hall, probably eager to tuck in to the start-of-term feast. Draco then turned to the remaining member of his troupe, whom had already taken to hanging on his arm and blinking her eyes adoringly at him. Pansy Parkinson's fingertips were terribly near the still raised marks upon Draco's forearm and he gritted his teeth against the pinched nerves, praying that she didn't stumble across the raised, uneven skin.

As though reading his thoughts, Pansy leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear. "Will you show it to me?"

Draco startled at her tone, hushed lest passersby should hear. "Show you what?" He asked warily, eyes darting about for eavesdroppers.

"The Mark," she breathed in reverence.

All of his muscles seemed to tense and then strain with the shock of her say what he had been so dreading. It took a few panicked heartbeats before he realized that she had been speaking of the Dark Mark. He relaxed then but only slightly.

"No," he said shortly. "Let's not speak of it here."

"But later," she pressed. Drawing even closer and dancing her fingers across his chest, she added, "when we're alone?"

Draco was sorely tempted to say yes. Pansy wasn't necessarily the brightest Lumos Charm, but she was quite a looker, by Hogwarts standards. A mere two months ago he would have leapt at such an opportunity. Now, however, he was too bogged down by more serious matters to pay her as much mind. Not to mention that the "dark mark" he had to show her was not at all what she was surely expecting.

"Really, Parkinson, you think the Dark Lord is a fool? That he would brand me as a Death Eater and send me right under Dumbledore's nose? Come now, even you aren't that thick."

He hadn't meant to be quite so rude. Well, perhaps he had. But, that was often how Draco dealt with arming himself against letting others go. By making them want to drop him first.

As Pansy disentangled from him and sauntered off in disgust, he reflected that this was better. The less she was in his life, the less he would have to lie. The less secrets he would have to keep. Yes, he realized as he entered the Great Hall and went to the Slytherin table, he was on the path to lead a very lonely life indeed.

/

As the feast continued and Ron gorged himself beside her, Hermione, content now that Harry had turned up, found her gaze drifting to the table on the far side of the Great Hall. Malfoy had picked half heartedly at his food, eyes downcast at his plate and refusing to meet the eyes of his classmates, even Crabbe and Goyle who kept exchanging curious glances with one another as their leader's silence drew on uncharacteristically long.

Malfoy dropped his fork unceremoniously upon the table and slouched over his lap. He kept his hands folded on the table, however his thumbs kept twitching and he would bend his head to either side, brushing his earlobes to his shoulders as though desperately fighting not to cover his ears. Abruptly, Malfoy stood and bolted from the Hall. An older Slytherin prefect's gaze trailed after him disapprovingly, but the blonde wizard's reputation must have stopped him from pursuing.

Hermione, however, had no such connotations. She stood as well, swinging her legs over the bench and moving to follow him before he could get too much of a lead.

"Wrrrugmmpf?" Ron protested around a mouthful of food. Foregoing the tedious process of chewing, he swallowed the obstruction with no small amount of effort and spoke again. "Where are you going?"

"Library," she said smoothly. "I want to get a jumpstart on our classwork this year. You know, the N.E.W.T.s are just around the corner, it won't do to let our minds go too idle."

"Alright, alright just go!" Ron said, drawing his face into exaggerated disgust. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you'd do well to warn a bloke before mentioning N.E.W.T.s!"

Hermione rolled her eyes as she walked away from the boys. It was necessary, she assured herself, to lie to her friends. After all, she had to satiate her curiosity somehow, and if she told Harry and Ron how she meant to do so, they would end up confronting Malfoy before she could learn anything. Harry was brave. Ron was righteous. But neither were very good at research, which is what Hermione valued and craved of life. Learning to her was to uncover all of the world's mysteries. And she was becoming increasingly interested in Malfoy's.

Yet, it still hurt to lie. She could only hope that Malfoy was worth it.

/

Draco walked briskly around the Slytherin table and out of the Great Hall. By the time he left, he had broken into an awkward run. His bones ached with the effort and his muscles burned in utter agony. By the time he reached the dungeons, he nearly collapsed at the foot of the stairs. He sat in the middle of the corridor, gasping and crying, he was crying. Tears were running down his face from the pain of the exertion and the torturous assault on his hearing in the Great Hall and why, why, why had this happened to him! To him, the king of Slytherin House! The heir to the Malfoy estate, the picture of pureblood. Why him? And now, a slave to his emotions, as he was a slave to time, to the Dark Lord, to the damned moon, he was crying. At school. And then, a shoe squeaked on the floor above him.

In an instant, he wiped frantically at his eyes, willing the tell-tale redness to fade from his face, though he knew the effort was futile. He splayed a palm against the cool brick wall and attempted to rise but, finding the effort not in his current power, resolved to sit tall and grasp the handle of his wand in wary preparation.

The witch who tramped down the stairs at long last was not at all whom he expected. She stopped, staring at him in shock. "Malfoy," she said hesitantly. Her Gryffindor badge gleamed in the low-lit corridor.

"Granger," he said in equal surprise. And, without him meaning to, his hand loosened from his wand and the slender stave clattered on the stone floor between them.


	6. Distractions

A/N: Thank you so much, afedrigo and Juliet Knighly for the kind reviews! As a show of gratitude, and a reward for your patience, here's an extra long chapter. I do, however, have a bit of housekeeping. First, you may have noticed the new cover art for this fic. This is courtesy of Noble-7, a talented writer over on Wattpad. I highly recommend you check out her work! Second, you may have also noticed that I have started writing for a new fandom in addition to _Harry Potter_. I have two _Animorphs _one-shots posted so far and more will come eventually. Of course I understand if nineties American sci-if/fantasy isn't something for you, however it is there if you're interested. :)

Chapter 6: Distractions

Draco looked on at Granger in mild shock, gritting his teeth in annoyance at how pathetic he knew he looked right now. He flexed his fingers, wishing he could summon the strength to reach out between them and grasp his wand. But, doing so could be interpreted as an act of war between them and he was in no position to start a fight, when he was not certain he had the will to finish it.

Granger saw where his gaze fell. She stepped off of the narrow staircase, grabbing his wand from the stone floor. Draco grimaced, wondering what would happen now. Would she hex him? Cast it aside and simply punch him like she had in third year? Or would she break it? Surely, he deserved her to. Half-breeds weren't meant to have wands. Though she didn't know his blood status, he had done so many awful things to her over the years, called her so many horrid names, she would have every reason to want to do it. Wouldn't he have done the same, in her place? Cripple the tool of power that the enemy did not deserve to possess?

Yet again, who was he to determine who or what could possess a wand? A half-breed certainly would not be awarded such a position of judgement. No, he decided. In the hypothetical situation where Granger's wand was in his hands, he would not break it. But it was not he standing over the vulnerable former tormentor in a secluded corridor, their only defense to the cruel world at his mercy.

Draco waited, not daring to alleviate his starved lungs. Not daring to close his eyes, though he knew seeing the unicorn hair bared to the low light would break the final fragile strings of his heart. Instead, he met her gaze, watching her scrutinizing brown eyes and awaiting the snap of splintering hawthorn wood to drown out the still-faint noises from the Great Hall above.

It was mere seconds. It was slow years. And then, she pointed the tip to the stone floor, placing it in her off hand and grasping her own wand in the right. This, she angled at him. "I'm going to give this back to you," she said firmly. Assuringly. "But, I can't be sure if this is a trick. So, resolve to know that I can hex you quicker than you can turn on me. If you adjust your grip at all, I'll curse you. Alright?"

"Seems reasonable," Draco said calmly. Inside, he was shrieking. Inside, he was shoving away from the wall, snatching his wand from her. But, he lacked the strength to do any of that quickly enough to prevent her from taking action. Funny, how precious his wand was now. A wand was magnificent to any wizard, he supposed. But, before, breaking his wand never seemed such a despair since he could always send away for a new one. Now though, that may well be the only wand he could ever own. And it was in Granger's hand.

"Alright," Granger said again. Slowly, painfully slow, she raised her left arm out towards him, offering him the tip of the hawthorn wand. Draco reached out just as cautiously, carefully cradling the vulnerable end of the stave and moving his hand down as she passed it on to him. Their fingers brushed somewhere during the exchange. Her hands were soft. But, that was unimportant because now his wand _was in his hand_. A wizard again, though a foolish one with the dangerous end of the stave pointed towards him and a Mudblood standing threateningly over him, he was a wizard once more.

Still reveling in his relief, he missed her query and she had to pose it again. "What happened to you? Are you so ill?"

Draco felt his features harden, defenses coming up. "That's none of your business, M- Granger." It wasn't right to call her Mudblood. He wouldn't want to be called half-breed. Even if it was true.

She mimicked his stone posture. "You're right, it really isn't," she said, turning away. "I just hope it's not catching."

"I'm not ill!" Draco cried suddenly, struggling to his feet in a mad surge to prove his health. "Don't go telling Potter those lies!"

Granger did not look back, though there was something resembling sympathy in her words. "I didn't mean it to spite you," she said softly. So softly. Perhaps she wasn't meaning him to hear. "I was just thinking you were starting to look more human."

Belatedly, Draco spun his wand back the right direction, confused and upset. And thoughtful.

/

There wasn't much use in lurking about the dungeons any longer so Draco retired to the Slytherin Common Room. Worried that Pansy would find him there, and not too interested in seeing people in general, he retreated up the stairs to his dormitory.

He sat at the foot of his bed for a long while, reading. It was a hobby he had always enjoyed, more so since his recent confinement to unstable health. And it was good, for a while. Quiet.

And then footsteps pounded on the stairs and Draco sighed internally, knowing his luck had once again run dry.

He fought the urge to look up, even once the door had burst open, so loud Draco wondered if the knob had put a hole through the opposite wall when they struck. The footsteps were light and the lingering of food smells was faint, so Draco made a guess that it was Blaise whom had entered the room. His musings were confirmed a moment later when the newcomer spoke.

"Where did you go off to in such a hurry?" Blaise asked, leaning against Draco's bedpost. The young werewolf hesitated a moment before setting the tome aside and staring up at his dorm mate.

"I came here, obviously," he said.

"Well, I know that," Blaise rolled his eyes. "But where _else_ did you go?"

"I don't know what you mean," Draco answered, puzzled.

"Oh," Blaise said, shoulders falling and mouth cast in disappointment. "I thought it might have had something to do with-" He gestured to his left forearm, eyes glinting in reverence. "_him_."

"No," Draco said roughly, willing himself to keep his eyes on Blaise though he felt his scars burning a hole through his sleeve. "It had nothing to do with that."

"So, what did you do to get it?" Blaise asked, sitting down on Draco's trunk, legs criss-crossed and barely suppressing his glee as though he were an excitable young child presented with his idol.

"Absolutely nothing," Draco said through gritted teeth, clutching at his forearm. He _had _done nothing, right? It was as his mother said, as the Dark Lord had said, it wasn't his fault, it was his father's. That was why he was being given this chance, this one chance to be a Death Eater like everyone expects of him.

Blaise had blanched at his tone, but powered on eagerly. "Is it because you're a Malfoy?"

"Maybe." Yes.

"Well, when do you think he'll recruit me? I mean, you're birthday's not all that closer than mine and you're not even seventeen yet. So, I can't be that far off, right?"

"Mmhmm," Draco hummed an empty adjuration, deciding the conversation had fizzled out to a point where it was safe to open his book again.

Blaise must have banged on for a bit more before he addressed Draco directly again, for his next comment was slightly too jarring to be apart of the earlier line of thought. "Well?" Blaise asked again, brown eyes boring into him. "I said, _can I see it_?"

"No," Draco said coldly, looking away again. This time, he did rub his forearm, wishing so desperately that he had the mark his friends thought he did. Not the one that would turn them away in repulsion, in horror. Merlin, if Blaise only knew what he was speaking with right now...

"I'm not showing you or Pansy or anyone else," Draco said again. "So you might as well all let it be."

Blaise scoffed, rolling his eyes and drawing away. "What, you're all modest now? I'm beginning to think you're not really a Death Eater."

"Maybe I'm not," Draco shrugged, whilst seething with himself for allowing a perfectly good cover for his soon-to-be frequent absences slip through his fingers. "And, by Merlin, lower your voice!"

"No one can hear us." Blaise looked puzzled, spreading his hands out as though to accentuate the security of the dorms. He was right. No one could hear the happenings from dorm to dorm. They had always felt perfectly safe talking about the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord here, where no blood traitor could overhear. But, now Draco could hear things. Not quite down to the common room, but surely on the stairs and the surrounding dorms. It made him feel less safe. Like he were on display, since logically it would seem as though everyone could hear him.

Unsure what to say, something that had not happened often before, Draco went back to his reading. Blaise made another noise of contempt, rising and striding towards the loo. "You've changed," he said as the door swung shut. Meant for himself, he muttered, "I'll wager it's about a girl."

Draco continued to study the page, but the words no longer held meaning to him. He nudged the book to his trunk and lay back, curling into a ball and cradling his left arm into his chest. Though the scars had long ceased hurting, it had become habit by now. He tried to rest, knowing that he was still in dire need of recovery time, but Blaise's last words kept filtering back to him out of the fiery darkness. He was right. There was a girl in his head. Granger.

She had not taken residence recently, of course. In fact, he was taken with her their very first term, the awkward yet composed, stumbling yet intelligent, faerie like creature that had so enraptured him with her quick and thoughtful mind that none of her classmates had any hope to understand. Of course, she hadn't been much to look at, back then, but that had hardly mattered at eleven years old when Draco knew near nothing of those kinds of feelings. He only knew that he liked what was inside of her, whatever her packaging.

Of course, that was only until the Christmas holidays. When his father discovered his attraction to a Mudblood, a _Gryffindor _Mudblood no less, he was sorely punished. Muggle blood, after all, was dirty. And anyone who developed feelings for such an abomination as a Muggle witch would in turn become just as vile. That was what he had been told. He believed it.

But, that didn't stop his physical feelings for her, which had started appearing around fourth year. Scorning Granger had been so easy before she went and made herself beautiful. After that, calling her Mudblood had been a reminder of why he shouldn't touch her, why he shouldn't _want _to touch her. His interest in her would cause his family to shun him. Of course, weren't they going to do that anyway now?

His mother wouldn't. By some miracle, she could overlook the wolf. Yet, he doubted she could turn a blind eye if he started _courting_ a point of shame. No, he had to forget about Granger and her infuriating kindness.

And, anyways, he had no time to worry over Granger! Or Pansy or Blaise or anyone else's unwanted attention. He was meant to be doing a job. With a silent moan, he unfurled himself, stumbling back to the floor and walking to his trunk where he unearthed his ink, a quill, and a bit of parchment. He had an idea, one that would allow him to kill Dumbledore and not by his own hand. He shuddered to think of watching the light leave those ice blue eyes. No, he had to find another way. Being indirectly responsible would still surely count, right? Surely he wouldn't have to deal the killing blow himself?

He had begun addressing the letter when Blaise emerged from the loo, but didn't look up. By the time he had finished and tucked the letter to Borgin away at his bedside, Crabbe and Goyle had found their way back to the dorm and Draco's friends were preparing for bed. They talked quietly amongst themselves, not bothering to include Draco in their catching up, although Goyle kept shooting furtive looks at him. Blaise must have said something then.

It was no matter, for Draco had already decided that it was better not to have friends this year. Or any year, really, now that he was what he was. It was better to stay isolated, lest he somehow contaminate their pure blood by mere association. It was kinder. And it would be far easier to plot against the Headmaster if no one hovered at his shoulder. He certainly wouldn't miss them. Pansy was nothing but a pretty face, Crabbe and Goyle were mindless goons that he'd never really felt close to, and Blaise... Blaise was shallow and conceited and wouldn't hesitate to turn on a friend if it meant he got a leg-up in life.

Yes, Draco would miss Blaise. He was someone who thought for himself for once when around him, and that was refreshing when more often than not his surname would be a wet cloth to any flicker of personality someone might have as they tried desperately to please him. But, no distractions, no distractions. Draco pulled the forest curtains about his bed frame, shutting out the light of the dorm and, though he could still hear the other boys, they already seemed far away. So easily, he disappeared. All he had to do was disappear and they would all but forget the former leader of their gang. Yes, this would work.

But for Granger. Blasted, nosy Granger whom had already been spying on him once. What if his new secrets were too tempting for her to ignore. What if she found out about the wolf? What if she found out about the _plan_? Draco let loose a firm sigh through his teeth. He closed his eyes, pursing his lips and trying again. This time, the exhale somewhat relaxed him. It would be alright, he assured himself. Granger's interest in his whereabouts had been fleeting. Nothing to be concerned about. He would forget about her and Potter and focus on the task at hand. When the Dark Lord reigned, his blood status would not define him. For all intents and purposes, he would be pure.

And yet, though he tried to expel further distractions from his mind, Granger's voice kept floating back to him in the darkness.

_You were starting to look more human..._


End file.
